


French Fish and a Nice Dish

by rabidsamfan



Category: Longstreet (TV), Nero Wolfe - Rex Stout
Genre: Character Study, Crossover, First Meetings, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 07:22:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8881096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabidsamfan/pseuds/rabidsamfan
Summary: Great detectives need good help.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [donutsweeper](https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutsweeper/gifts).



When I first saw the blind man he was standing outside the brownstone on West 35th Street with a dog and a dame and an appointment to see me. Well, talk to me technically, but you get the idea. The cab they had arrived in was idling by the curb. As I approached I heard the girl say, in the voice I recognized from the phone call that morning, “Are you sure you don’t want me to stick around, Mike?” 

“I’ll be fine, Nikki,” he answered with a touch of impatience, patting the hand she had tucked by his elbow. “Go visit Cloris while you’ve got the chance. It’s not like we’ll be in New York again any time soon.” 

That meant he had to be Mike Longstreet, an insurance investigator out of New Orleans, and she had to be Nikki Bell, his secretary. He was topped by a smooth cap of hair so blond it was only outmatched by the white coat of the dog sitting at his feet. He was also tanned and athletic, and had started his morning by picking out a suit that was a little too flimsy for a New York November. She was tall for a girl, only a few inches shorter than he was, with a pixie cut in pale brown on top and long legs in warm tights below a skirt that was nearly as short as her hair. She’d called to say that some questions had come up about the destruction of some Ming vases. Since one of the vases in question had left me sporting a pair of shiners and a lump on my noggin the size of a doorknob, the insurance company tapped Longstreet and Bell to come and do the asking. I’d told them to come by while Wolfe was up with his orchids, and I’d see what I could do about providing answers.

They were ten minutes early, which is why I was still on my way back to the brownstone from a grocery run. Fritz is usually the one to choose the main ingredient for _Lotte a L'Imperatrice_ , but I’d been cooped up recovering for a week and I needed to get out in the fresh air. Which made things interesting on both sides, because I generally don’t greet visitors to Wolfe’s door with an armful of the ugliest fish known to mankind, and Nikki Bell had somehow failed to mention that her boss wasn’t in any condition to notice.

“Well,” she told him as I made my final approach, “if you get done early you can go to the deli at the end of the block and get a bite to eat and something to drink.” Her cheek dimpled mischievously, “You should try an egg cream.” 

“All right,” Longstreet said absently, already cocking his head in my direction. He wasn’t quite looking the right way, but it was obvious he’d heard me, so I spoke up.

“Hello, my name’s Goodwin, Archie Goodwin.” I shifted the fish over to one side and offered a hand. The dog stood up and leaned into his master’s leg, turning him subtly while Nikki Bell turned to meet me with a hand of her own. She had an eyebrow up for the fading green raccoon mask I was wearing, but Longstreet never so much as blinked.

“Nikki Bell,” she said as we shook. “And this is Mike Longstreet.” 

He held out a hand too, but it was up to me to take hold of it. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Longstreet,” I said. He had a good handshake, nice and firm without being pushy, and a decent smile. 

“Mike,” he said. “Thank you for agreeing to meet with me. I hope you won’t mind if Nikki doesn’t stay. She’s got an old student who lives nearby and we’re flying back to New Orleans in the morning.”

“I’m only going as far as West 38th Street,” she said. “I won’t take more than an hour.”

“That ought to be plenty of time,” I said. Wolfe would be down in forty five minutes, but I could always park Longstreet in the front room or aim him at the deli if my boss was feeling fractious. I wanted to ask her about the care and feeding of a blind detective, but it looked like I wouldn’t get the chance. Then again, I had nearly three feet of monkfish under my arm, and I could probably convince Fritz to make enough food for guests. _Lotte a L'Imperatrice_ is like a good chili. It’s just as good or better when it’s leftovers, and Fritz knows that I’ll eat it that way whether or not decides to Wolfe turn up his nose. “In fact, come back a little before one. If I can’t talk Mr. Wolfe into feeding you, I’ll show you both the best place to get egg creams in the whole city. Unless you’re in a rush to get somewhere.” I waggled the fish demonstratively, and the dog woofed at me. “I’m pretty sure you’re not going to eat us out of house and home.”

Nikki Bell giggled. ‘That is a lot of fish,” she said. 

“I thought I smelled something,” Longstreet said. He reached down to reassure the dog.

“It’s kind of a giant catfish without the whiskers only moreso,” his companion told him, still laughing. Then she turned to me with a wry smile. “It’s nice of you to offer, but this is just a side errand. A favor for a friend of Mike’s. We actually came to New York to attend the conference of the American Federation of the Blind.”

“And here I thought you came for the egg creams,” I said with a grin. A New York egg cream hasn’t got egg or cream in it -- it’s a combination of milk, chocolate, and soda water -- something I wasn’t expecting a girl from New Orleans to know. I was pretty sure her boss didn’t.

She blushed, and it only made her prettier. “Well, anyway, we really ought to get back for the afternoon session.”

“Robbie’s speech isn’t till four,” Longstreet said, his grin taking five years off my original estimate. “And I had to listen to Mrs. Feeney rehearsing her talk while I was waiting to rehearse mine. I think we can afford to take a long lunch.”

It was kind of a shame that he couldn’t see the way that Nikki Bell lit up. She looked down at the dog. “Pax, you’re in charge till I get back,” she told it, and then gave Longstreet a perfunctory squeeze on the arm before disengaging. “Thanks, Mike!” she said cheerfully before digging into her purse for a slip of paper to hand to me. “And thank you too, Mr. Goodwin.” 

She shook my hand, leaving the paper behind. Five seconds later she was in the back of the taxi, singing out an address it would have been faster to walk to. 

As soon as she was gone I checked out the paper. “Cloris Bentley,” I said aloud, and Longstreet chuckled, his smile twisting wryly.

“She left the number, didn’t she? Don’t worry. I’m not that fragile. Nikki’s just recovering from the last time I got in a fight.”

“Don’t let her tell Wolfe that,” I said, heading up the steps. I figured he could follow my voice and I was right. “He’s still recovering from the last time _I_ got in a fight.”

***********

I parked Longstreet in the office while I turned over the fish to Fritz and called up on the kitchen line to the greenhouses to warn Wolfe that I’d invited guests to lunch. He grumbled that I would soon be recovered enough to cease imposing upon his good nature, but not loudly enough to matter. By the time I hung up Fritz had already pulled four place settings from the cabinet. 

I took the good news back to the office and after some preliminary courtesies, Longstreet and I got into the meat of it. Given that he was working for the Great Pacific Casualty Company, I figured he was looking for a reason why they wouldn’t need to pay up, and I didn’t know that I could help him. The vases had been destroyed all right, and the owner hadn’t even been in the city when her cousin had dropped one of them on my head. I said as much, and Longstreet just nodded, his head cocked to one side like he was listening for something I couldn’t hear, and then asked if I wouldn’t mind describing the set up more thoroughly.

I couldn’t exactly draw him a map, so we ended up pushing back all the chairs so we could pace out the set up of Jody’s Farrell foyer. I’ll give it to Longstreet, he was more than willing to help, and not just by migrating furniture. He explained how he “saw” the world, using clock directions and described distances. It took us a couple of tries before he had the dimensions solid, but once he did it was just a matter of running through the sequence up to the point where I got concussed. 

We were on the third runthrough, which was mostly Longstreet demonstrating that he’d got a good grasp of how hard I’d fallen, when I heard the elevator coming down. I excused myself to warn Wolfe about the rearranged furniture, and by the time we got back Longstreet was on his feet and his dog was at them. He cocked his head at Wolfe and made the appropriate noises about not wanting to be in the way but Wolfe flapped a flipper at him and then added words as he crossed to his desk. “By all means take a seat, Mr. Longstreet. Our involvement in the Farrell case ended with the confession of Mr. Hoglund, but I’m sure Archie has provided you with any details which might bolster your company’s case.”

Longstreet reached down to run a hand over his dog’s head before smiling in Wolfe’s direction. “Actually, I think he’s destroyed the company’s case pretty thoroughly. It sounds like Miss Farrell had nothing to do with the destruction of the insured items, and had taken the appropriate precautions with the display.”

“The only thing she might have done differently,” I put in, “is bolted the case to the wall in more than two places. And I’m not sure that would have made any difference once he threw me into it.”

“I’m certain she was considering earthquakes, and not destructive relations,” Wolfe said. He pressed the buzzer at his desk to summon Fritz and his morning beer.

“Four feet at three o’clock,” I told Longstreet, aiming him for the red leather chair as I repositioned it near Wolfe’s desk.

“Oughtn’t we better put the chairs back where they were first?” Longstreet said.

Wolfe grunted approval. “Archie will see to them. Please. Sit. I dislike having to crane my neck for a conversation.”

Longstreet nodded thoughtfully and found the chair. “Thank you, Mr. Wolfe.”

I put the room back into its usual order while they made with the pleasantries and Fritz came in to distribute beer and milk. He brought water for the dog too, but the dog wouldn’t take it until Longstreet gave him permission. 

“We have to be careful,” he explained. “Not everyone is happy with what I do, and they might take it out on Pax.”

“Precautions are a necessity in our common profession.” Wolfe gave me the eye. “Although not all of us are consistent in applying them.”

“I took precautions,” I protested, without heat. We were on round seven of this conversation. “We just didn’t have any way to know that Hoglund knew Orrie on sight and would decide to hide out in his cousin’s apartment. And Saul got up there in time to stop him before he broke anything important.”

“Your skull,” Wolfe growled, “is not unimportant.”

“And not actually broken,” I countered. “Just a little dented.”

Longstreet was not doing a very good job of hiding his smile. “Does this happen often?” he asked.

“No, thank goodness,” Wolfe said, still glaring at me. “In general, Mr. Goodwin shows a modicum of sense.”

Longstreet shrugged and his smile got crooked. “I wish good sense were enough,” he said. “Nikki got kidnapped right in front of me a few months ago, and she’s one of the most sensible people I know.”

Wolfe settled his mass deeper into his chair, going into listening mode. “Oh?” He asked. “How did you get her back?”

*****

Wolfe and Longstreet got along like gangbusters. It didn’t take long before they had moved from boasting about past cases to comparing techniques for discerning significant facts in a case without direct observation. Wolfe had the advantage, of course, since he’s got me, and I didn’t get my detective’s license out of a crackerjack box. But from what Longstreet said, Nikki was no slouch either. She’d been teaching at a school for the blind when he met her, which had taught her to calculate distances with accuracy, and describe them that way too. He’d hired her away from the school to act as his assistant when he “graduated,” and she’d worked for him ever since. But only during the day. Shooing her and his cook out the door for the night was a point of pride for Longstreet, regardless of the inconvenience of putting together his own breakfast in the morning.

By the time the doorbell rang at a few minutes to one, Wolfe had managed to damn me with faint praise, slander my ability to come home intact, and somehow convey that he trusted me implicitly. Even with women. I got up to get the door, since Fritz was in the final throes of creation. As soon as I got in the hall I could see Nikki Bell through the one-way mirror. She was checking her hair to make sure it was okay, and I was pretty sure it wasn’t for the sake of her boss. So I took a moment with the hall mirror myself before I opened the door.

“Hello again,” I said, as I waved her inside. “I’m not sure I introduced myself properly before. My name’s Archie, and I’m Nero Wolfe’s legs.” I gave her a hopeful grin. 

She dimpled up. “I’m Nikki,” she said. “And I’m Mike Longstreet’s eyes.”

We shook on it, and I drew her hand into the crook of my elbow to lead her down the hall. She didn’t object, which was promising. “So,” I said, “I’ve heard of eyes dancing. Is it only a metaphor?”

“No, indeed!” she said. “Is that an invitation?”

“It is,” I grinned at her. “Is that a yes?”

“A maybe,” she qualified. “It will depend on whether or not you can work around Mike’s quest to find out if the New York music scene has anything to show up what we get at home.”

“That,” I told her, as I ushered her into the office, “depends entirely on what you get at home.” 

********

It was a lively lunch. With Nikki back, Longstreet relaxed enough that I realized how tense he’d been beforehand, but that was all to the good. Wolfe doesn’t like talking business while he eats, but between food and music there was plenty of material to keep the conversation going. Wolfe being Wolfe, he wanted to know about New Orleans cuisine. Me being me, I wanted to find out if I could persuade our guests into choosing a club with a dance floor for their last night in New York. 

By the time we got to the coffee and _clafoutis_ , Wolfe had just about persuaded Nikki to demonstrate the difference between a Cajun roux and a Creole roux, and Mike had definitely convinced me that when it came to music what he was really interested was in the cutting edge of New York jazz. With most of the older jazz clubs gone or switched over to rock and roll, some of the best jazz in town was happening in little lofts all over Harlem, where you not only needed an in to get in, you also needed to be willing to park in a corner while you listened and hoped your lungs wouldn’t give up from the miasma of funny cigarettes. I don’t object to listening or funny cigarettes in general, but the parking was problematic. Music makes me want to move.

“Pah,” Wolfe said, when I was just about ready to admit defeat. “Call Mr. Cohen. If he is not an aficionado of the first caliber, he will know someone who is. Then Mr. Longstreet can enjoy a native guide to New York jazz and Miss Bell can decide whether or not she wishes to cater to your whims.” 

He really is a genius. Which is annoying, but useful. “Lon Cohen is a newspaperman,” I explained. “He knows everybody, and everybody knows him. And he talked me into taking a date to a concert by Philip Glass once.” I suppressed a twitch at the memory. “That’s so far past cutting edge that it’s bleeding notes.”

Our guests exchanged what must have been mental telepathy because it sure wasn’t glances, even if their heads did turn toward each other. “You could use a night off,” Longstreet said. “And I know you like to dance.”

“So do you,” Nikki said. “And I’m not sure you could take Pax with you if the venues are as small as Archie says they are.”

Longstreet shrugged. “He could probably use a night off too. Although the question is moot if Mr. Wolfe’s friend isn’t willing to play escort.” He put his hand down and Pax raised his head to meet it, just in time to get his ears fondled.

It was worth a try. I put my napkin aside. “I’ll ring Lon at his office. He should be back from his lunch by now.”

****

Lon was delighted to have the chance to pick Longstreet’s brain about New Orleans jazz, and he promised to show up at their hotel at eight, so I wandered back toward the dining room to give them the good news. Only to discover that the rest of the party had decamped for the kitchen. There, Fritz was fussing about letting a woman near his stove, and Nikki and Mike were debating whether to start with the fat or the flour. Since Wolfe was primarily interested in what colors the roux would turn they settled on using lard and a higher heat. “If Mrs. Kingston, my cook, was here she’d tell you that you can’t make a proper roux in less than an hour and a half,” Longstreet told Wolfe. “Low and slow is how she does it. But the truth is everyone in Louisiana has their own idea about what constitutes a proper roux.”

“As long as you don’t burn it, it’ll be good for one thing or another,” Nikki said, spooning lard from the can into a pan on the stove. “And you can keep it in the refrigerator for a few days while you fetch the rest of the ingredients you need. Just stir it up again and let it go to room temperature because it separates when you let it sit.”

“Or pour off the oil,” Mike said. “You really want the part with the flour anyway.”

“That’s a waste,” Nikki countered, and he laughed. 

“See what I mean about everyone having their own ideas?”

“Just for that you can do the stirring,” Nikki told him. She smiled at Fritz. “May we borrow another apron?”

I thought Wolfe’s eyebrows were going to climb off his face. “Is that safe?”

“About as safe as it is for anyone,” Nikki said placidly, although I could see that the question irritated Longstreet. I got the feeling that he wasn’t real happy about being reminded of his limitations. “They don’t call this stuff Cajun napalm for nothing.”

“And I’m less likely to get impatient and splash myself,” Longstreet added. 

Wolfe huffed. “Very well. Archie.” He turned to me. “Get the camera. I think it may be necessary to supplement your notes.”

******

By the time Wolfe headed back to the plant rooms for his afternoon orchid extravaganza I had filled ten pages in my notebook. My memory is good, but when you’re trying to recall the recipes of six kinds of Étouffée, ten kinds of gumbo, Crayfish Laurie, Fricasse de Boulette, two kinds of courtbouillon, and chicken pie, and the people recommending the recipes keep describing variants that only change the ingredient lists slightly, even I need a pencil. Fritz, who had started by being appalled by the way they were burning the roux, was muttering happily over a grocery list. I didn’t know where I was going to find Filé powder, but I was pretty sure I was going to be looking for it.

“And if you get stuck, you can write me and I’ll ship you some,” Nikki offered as I waved down a cab to take her and her boss back to their conference.

“I’ll see what the prospects are between now and eight,” I told her. “Once I turn the film in, that is.” I had two rolls of kodachrome in my pocket, ready to go. For the usual camera work I’d drop it off at one of the one-hour places, but Wolfe had commanded me to find a place that would send it back to Kodak to make sure the colors came out perfect. “You made his day, you know. Thanks.”

“Well you made mine,” Longstreet said, reaching for a handshake. Lon had called back about the time that the roux had gone to the shade of peanut butter to say he was bringing along the Gazette’s music critic and three tickets for Sonny Rollins at the Vanguard, and Longstreet was over the moon about the opportunity.. “If you and Mr. Wolfe ever get down to the Big Easy, we’ll have to show you some real New Orleans hospitality.”

I grinned as I reached to take Longstreet’s hand, imagining Wolfe squeezing himself onto an airplane. It wasn’t likely. Not even for gumbo. “Pigs might fly before Wolfe does,” I said. “But I might take you up on that. I get vacations sometimes, and they tell me it‘s warmer down there.”

A cab drew up and Nikki handed Longstreet in, and then the dog before scooting in beside them and pulling the door shut. She rolled down the window.. “I’ll see you at eight, right?” she said, and it wasn’t exactly a question, not the way she said it.

“I’ll wear my dancing shoes,” I promised her, and then stood back to demonstrate a step or two before the cab drove away.

 

Fin


End file.
